


I'm Losing My Mind This Time

by caliginousmind



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Asylum, Charles is a bit insane, Dark, Did I Mention Violence?, Graphic Description, M/M, Mutants Put In A Madhouse, Slightly Older Erik, So is everyone, Tags Tags What Are Tags, Violence, Young Charles, also death, and sadness, longer fic, so is Erik, there is violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-13 11:51:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1225246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caliginousmind/pseuds/caliginousmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the early nineteen hundreds, genetic mutations are chalked up to be mental illnesses. Thus, determined unwell and clinically insane, Charles Xavier is delivered into the hands of the Cliffside Manor, an institution in England with questionable morals and slimy characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The characters do not belong to me! And the timeline and ages are not at all canon. Also the title is from the song Be Calm by the band Fun. Most of the inspiration for this fic came from watching American Horror Story and me visiting an old basement. Please note again that this is violent and graphic. There is also character death, but I'll say no more!  
> Enjoy!

“Now your son’s name is?” the doctor asked, his pen poised above the clean white form spread across the large wooden desk.

“Charles Xavier,” his mother said. She reached up to pat her artificially curled hair, avoiding his father’s helpless and pleading gaze.

_Patient: Charles Xavier_

_Admitted by: Dr. Hank McCoy_

Charles did not have to peek at the paper. He could hear the words echoing through the doctor’s mind as he read the print, then the sound of the doctor’s own second-natured thoughts calling up letters as he scribbled across the page. Charles could read and write, too. He could read and write so well, at a rate that far exceeded his age level. When he was eight he read _Mobey Dick_ twice because he adored it so much. When he was nine he memorized every single one of Hamlet’s soliloquies. It scared them though. His mother screamed “witchcraft” and “devil child” and burned all his books. His father, his poor weak father, did nothing to stop her, he just held Charles and told him it would all be alright.

 _Date: July 7 th, 1902_, Dr. McCoy thought. Charles never did learn how to keep the voices out.

“And what is the nature of your son’s illness?” Dr. McCoy pushed up his glasses, which had slid slightly off his nose when he bowed his head to write. He looked politely to the well-dressed couple in front of him, the woman with her pearls and the man with his shiny leather shoes.

“He says he sees things, like girls that can change their shape or demons with scaly skin.” His mother shuddered as she spoke.

 _Reason(s) for admission: hallucinations_ , Dr. McCoy wrote. Charles gritted his teeth. He was not hallucinating: that girl was real.

“Anything else?” Dr. McCoy prompted. His mother sat forward in her chair, almost eagerly. She was enjoying this, Charles could hear her mind singing at the thought of getting rid of her unsightly child, the one neighbors and relatives called a freak, maybe they could even have a girl this time, why we never did this sooner, oh cherish the thought! Charles gripped the arm rests of the hard wooden chair.

“My son lies about things all the time. He knows information he has no right or reason to know. He tells us he can hear it in our thoughts, but he must go rifling through our stuff when we’re gone.” She spoke it all in a breathless rush. Charles smiled ruefully at the floor. Funny she did not say what the information was, like her father’s company’s fraud and her scheme to steal even more money from the government by blackmailing people.

 _Compulsive lying_ , Dr. McCoy wrote.

“But Doctor,” he mother implored, leaning even farther forward in her chair, her pearls dangling from her skinny neck and singing ominously, her voice dropping to a dramatic whisper. “He could only know these things by having _an ear turned to the devil_.” She righted herself in her chair, a false sense of regret plastered over her face, which was so layered in powder and cream it could frost a cake.

Dr. McCoy looked at her for a long moment. His brow knitted together and the bright afternoon sun shining through the window glinted off of his thick glasses.

“Right,” he said quietly. His pen did not descend to the paper. Charles’ mother noticed this. She patted her hair again.

“And how old is your son?” Dr. McCoy’s pen hovered still over the paper. Charles’ father stirred. He sat up and wiped a small tear from the wrinkled corner of his eye.

“Twenty-one,” he croaked. He looked at Charles, his broken expression calling for forgiveness. Charles glared at the floor. He had done nothing, _nothing_ , to help his son.

 _Age: twenty-one_.

“Is there anything else you would like the institution to know?”

“Yes,” his mother said quickly. “He smashes things, expensive things mind you, and frequently tore his room apart. He has used violence against both of us and in his youth he drowned a kitten.”

 _Violent behavior_ , Dr. McCoy wrote. Charles felt his hands shaking. It was an accident. He was six and the kitten had rolled in some foul smelling thing outside. He thought he should bathe it. He did not know, did not realize it was dead until he brought the cold corpse wrapped in a blanket to his governess, proud of himself, showing her it was clean and he could take care of it, and she lifted the flap of fabric and screamed bloody murder. She did not understand; she thought he did it on purpose. It was an accident.

But he did break all the china. He did take a wooden bat and shatter all the oriental vases and glass cabinets. He did, in blind pain and fury, tear apart his bed hangings and overturn his desk and dresser. He did attack his parents, the ones who made him and did not have the pity to just kill him when he was younger, the ones who were now abandoning him to this insane asylum.

“Well, if that is all, I’ll have you sign here, indicating that you pass on all responsibility of your son to the institution, and that you agree to any and all treatment issued in attempt to remedy his illness.” Dr. McCoy turned the form around on the desk, and passed the pen to Charles’ mother. She nodded impatiently and signed her name with a flourish at the bottom of the page. She moved to hand the pen back to the doctor, but he shook his head.

“I’m sorry, but I need the signatures of both legal guardians in order for this admission to be deemed lawful.” He smiled encouragingly at Charles’ father. His father looked first to Dr. McCoy, then to his wife, then to Charles with hopeless eyes. When no one offered any escape, he ran a trembling hand through his hair, took the pen from his wife, and signed a shaky signature.  

Dr. McCoy smiled politely at the three of them and took the pen, rolling up the paper in a business-like manner.

“There now, everything is settled. Mr. and Mrs. Xavier, if you would like to say goodbye to your son, I’ll wait outside. Take as much time as you like.” He walked from the room, his office, and closed the door on his way out. Charles stayed seated, his gaze fixed determinedly on the floor. He heard his mother get up and come to him. She placed a claw-like hand on his shoulder.

“Be good, won’t you dear? It’s all for the best.” She leaned in to kiss his head. Time seemed to slow. He could feel her sherry smelling breath looming closer, hot bursts of it skimming across each one of his wavy brown locks. His knuckles were white from his grip on the arm rests. His tongue made a slow trail across his plush lower lip. Then time raced to catch up again as Charles snapped his neck to face her and bared his teeth, a growl erupting from his chest before she could place her lacquered lips on him. She shrieked and fled, dragging his bewildered father with her, their fancy footfalls flying passed a confused Dr. McCoy and skidding down the hall and out the front doors. Charles threw his head back and laughed, more than that, cackled, the tendons in his neck straining, his hands clasped over his stomach, howls of mirth escaping the good doctor’s office and skipping joyfully down the dreary hallway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Azazel's look is following along the movie's vision, soo yeah!

Dr. McCoy led Charles throughout the institution, pointing out various points of interest as they passed.

“This is the infirmary,” he said as they walked by a set of closed doors. Charles nodded, keeping his hands shoved in his pockets and his face devoid of interest, though he catalogued each location in his mind for future reference.

“And here’s the kitchen,” Dr. McCoy continued. Charles gave the doctor a questioning look. Dr. McCoy chuckled. “I know, odd, isn’t it, to put a kitchen right across from the infirmary? Imagine that, one side of the hall people make food and the other harbors sick individuals.” He shook his head in disbelief. “It’s almost as if they don’t want you to be cure-“ Dr. McCoy stopped suddenly, looking slightly bug-eyed behind his glasses.

“Yes?” Charles inquired.

“Ah, nothing. Don’t mind me. They wouldn’t want-“ He broke off awkwardly again at looked helplessly at his hands, as if unsure what to do with them or why they were there.

“ _Who_ wouldn’t want you to say that, Dr. McCoy?” Charles urged. Dr. McCoy shook his head once more. He started walking down the wide hallway again and beckoned for Charles to follow. He did so, slightly annoyed. Trailing along in Dr. McCoy’s wake, Charles gently poked at Dr. McCoy’s mind, searching for some sort of clue, but cautiously, not wanting the doctor to realize something unwelcome was prodding at his thoughts. Charles found nothing helpful or cognizant, only the jumpy thoughts of _stupid, talk too much_ and then the mild _wonder what we’re having for dinner, actually_ and _he might be there_. Judging by the burly, brawny, yet softened and admiring image of the _he_ in Dr. McCoy’s thoughts, the _he_ was not Charles, nor anyone he knew. All trivial thoughts, nothing he needed, but there was something uncertain there, something icy cold and diamond thick. Charles was unsure why it was there, unsure if Dr. McCoy was even aware of it, but it almost acted as a barrier against Charles, hiding darker, stygian things beneath the surface.

It was like Charles was a small fishing skiff, floating through the ocean of Dr. McCoy’s mind. The water had been choppy and reckless at first, splattering him with cold, but now it was serene and calm, slowing pushing him and his little boat along. Nothing disturbed him, nothing was there but the happy warm sun and he and his skiff. Every now and then a medium-sized silver fish swam lazily alongside his boat.

“I’ll catch you.” He reached a mitten donned hand into the water and closed it around the fish, who did not protest or squirm. It hung floppy and slippery in his hand. It gaped at him with a large, toothless mouth and big innocent black eyes.

“I like him,” it said in a slow, stupid fishy voice. “He is strong and funny and smells like a man.” Charles tossed the fish back in the water with a sigh and kept moving.

He soon came across a small iceberg, white and light blue and the sunning spot for fat and lazy seals.

“No matter, I can move around you,” he said to the iceberg, proudly patting his trusted skiff. The iceberg regarded him thoughtfully but made no answer. The seals, however, barked out to him.

“Hungry, arff!” they cried. “Food, arrrrff!”

He ignored them and moved in closer to the iceberg. Perhaps he should climb it, he did bring his ice picks after all, and the iceberg was just a tiny specimen, not ten feet high. But, upon further inspection, he found that this was just the peak of the iceberg. Much more lay beneath the surface. There was a gargantuan frozen monster under the water, too deep and too dark to fathom. Curious yet cautious, he drew himself out of the doctor’s mind, silently leaving the sea and taking his little skiff with him.

Dr. McCoy showed him the majority of the asylum, pointing out the women’s toilet, the men’s, the separate bathhouses. He led Charles down a narrow, dark hallway with a high ceiling. On either side of them there were rows upon rows of prisons, only a few occupied.

“This is the men’s dorm,” Dr. McCoy said, walking further down the long hallway. “One of these rooms will be yours, Mr. Xavier. Mr. Xavier?” He stopped, suddenly realizing Charles was no longer behind him. Charles had stopped at one cell, the door slightly ajar, and pushed it open. A set of shackles were bolted to the wall, lying in a coil of chains on the floor. There was a miniscule window, no more than one square foot, at the very top of the wall adjacent to the doorway. A bed, small and made of rusting metal, sat in the corner, adorned with a thin mattress and nothing more. A tiny tin can was situated at the foot of the bed. The whole place reeked of some fetid odor.

“Mr. Xavier?” Dr. McCoy was at his side. He placed a gentle, warm hand on his shoulder.

“I know how it looks,” he said quietly, reassuringly. “But this room hasn’t been used in ages. And we never chain anybody up unless they are a danger to themselves or others.” He gave his shoulder a little tug. Charles continued to stare at the chains, lying coiled like a spring on the ground, a snake, tensing to strike.

“Charles – is it all right if I call you Charles?” He swallowed and nodded, his eyes fixed on the chains. Dr. McCoy’s hand tightened on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Charles, if you give them no reason to hurt you they won’t,” he assured. Charles felt his nostrils flare, that was hardly comforting, yet he let himself be led away with another insistent tug from Dr. McCoy, tearing his eyes away from the upsetting sight.

“There, that’s better,” Dr. McCoy said lightly. He kept his hand on Charles’ shoulder as they made their way down the expanse of the hall.

“As I said, one of these rooms will be yours, we have plenty of space here. We haven’t had too many patients check in, believe it or not. In fact you – oh, hello Azazel! What’s that you’ve got?” Charles gave a start as they came face to face with a man shuffling across the floor towards them. He was clad in a long, loose fitting and slightly grubby striped dressing gown. He wore one gray sock and one yellow one, and his feet were slipped into worn black shoes that looked a little too large. But what surprised Charles the most was his skin. It looked almost rubbery, thicker than normal skin. And it was red. Bright, blood red like the devil. He had scruffy and greasy black hair that hung in knots around his head and on his face a goatee that looked rather overgrown. Despite his frightening appearance, he looked innocent and childish under several scars. His eyes were a light green, almost like the sea glass Charles and his father had collected that one day at the beach, lifetimes ago. His eyes were wide and curious and reflected the light. In his hand he held some long, thin object, though when Dr. McCoy asked he hid it behind his back and mumbled something indiscriminant.

“Azazel,” Dr. McCoy scolded. “Come now, show me what you have.”

Azazel mumbled under his breath again, looking sheepishly at the ground. He shifted from foot to foot.

“Didn’t catch that?” Dr. McCoy leaned forward, turning his head to the side to better hear him. Azazel shrugged and lifted his gaze to Dr. McCoy’s.

“Got nothing,” he grumbled. His accent was strange and unrecognizable, or perhaps it was a speech impediment, Charles could not tell.

“Well, that’s not true. You’ve got something behind your back. Now, what is it?” Dr. McCoy asked. When Azazel blinked slowly and refused to answer, Dr. McCoy sighed.

“I don’t want to have to bring this up with my superiors. You don’t want that to happen, either, do you?” Azazel shook his head back and forth, his eyes widening in fear.

“That’s right. So hand it over, please.” Dr. McCoy held out his hand. Azazel gave him a sad look, then slowly brought his hand around to his front and dropped the object in the doctor’s hand. Leaning closer, Charles could see that the object was a poorly crafted metal flute. It looked to be melded together from several different pieces of metal, and there were numerous rough spots and dents, yet the mouth hole was smoothed over, the three joints fit together seamlessly, and the keys seemed perfectly playable.

“Who gave this to you?” Dr. McCoy rolled the instrument over in his hands and brought it closer to his face to examine.

“Friend,” Azazel said quietly. Dr. McCoy looked up and raised his eyebrows.

“Which friend?”

“My friend,” Azazel said, in the same slow, quiet voice. Dr. McCoy sighed heavily.

“Very well, don’t tell me.” He gave the flute another glance over, then passed it back to Azazel.

“I don’t think it’s against the rules, so you can keep it,” he said. Azazel seemed to light up as the flute was given to him.

“Thank you, thank you, doctor!” he said, his voice becoming clearer and less slow. Dr. McCoy smiled.

“You’re welcome, Azazel. Now go on back to your business. I have to bring Charles here through the rest of the institution.” His hand went up to clap Charles’ shoulder again. Azazel looked at Charles, seeming to notice him for the first time. He nodded slowly and turned his large eyes away, shuffling down the hall the way they had come. Charles spotted a long red tail just peeking out from the hem of the dressing gown, swishing back and forth as Azazel tottered on, cradling his metal flute.

“Poor bloke,” Dr. McCoy said quietly as they walked off in the opposite direction. Charles turned his attention back to the doctor. “He’s very sweet and kind-hearted, just a little dim.”

They found their way out of the dorm hall now, into a wider, brighter hallway. There were three doors leading to other places, but all were closed. Charles made a mental note to check back on them when he got the chance. They rounded a corner and were in the main lobby to the institution now. The spiral staircase leading to Dr. McCoy’s office, where his parents had dragged him up, mere hours ago, was across from the thick wooden entrance doors. A few people passed by them, including a woman in a white dress with a name embroidered on her breast pocket, who was leading a small dark skinned girl toward the hallway Charles and the doctor had just been in; two men, both with white uniforms and the same embroidered pockets, walking and chatting, one pushing a cart loaded with medical supplies; and a tall, lean man with gingery hair, who gave Charles a once-over as they passed, Dr.McCoy’s arm still slung across his shoulders.

“Not that Azazel isn’t smart,” Dr. McCoy continued. “He is smart, just a bit slow. He wasn’t always like that, actually,” the doctor remarked thoughtfully. Charles perked up in interest.

“What do you mean?” he asked. Dr. McCoy smiled sadly at him.

“Just that people change in these situations, you know? Over time they lose hope. He used to play the piano, incredibly well, but he doesn’t really so much anymore. But this is all very dreary, isn’t it?” Dr. McCoy asked, chuckling ruefully. Charles suddenly felt a strange, foreign need to comfort him – something he never really felt for another person, something he never really understood.

“He has his flute now,” he said helplessly, searching for words to make the doctor feel better. It was a poor attempt in Charles’ opinion, but Dr. McCoy smiled brightly at him all the same, a smile that dimpled his face and lit up his eyes.

“You’re right, he does,” he said. “He was happy to keep it.” Charles nodded in agreement.

“Ah, Ms. MacTaggert!” Dr. McCoy called out to a woman descending the stairs. She reached the bottom steps and made her way over to them, her black heels clicking with every step, barely showing from beneath her long, lavish gray skirt. She wore a white blouse, with the name _Ms. Moira MacTaggert_ embroidered on the breast pocket. A large silver brooch with a black stone pinned the top of the blouse together. She tucked a sheaf of paper under her arm.

“Dr. McCoy,” she said. “And this must be Mr. Charles Xavier?” She held out her hand. Somewhat baffled – he had been expecting a curtsey – he took her hand and shook. Hers was small but her grip was firm and strong.

“Just the man, yes,” Dr. McCoy said. He moved a bit closer to Ms. MacTaggert, his voice dropping slightly.

“Listen, I must go check up on our, erm –“ He glanced at Charles warily, who was eyeing the pair in interest “– _patient_.” Ms. MacTaggert nodded hastily.

“Of course, doctor. I was directed to pass these on to you,” she responded in the same hushed tone. Dr. McCoy took the papers from her hands and stashed them under his lab coat, hiding them from view.

“Thank you, Ms. MacTaggert,” he said, back to his normal, cheerful voice. “I must get back to work, I’ve dawdled long enough, but would you mind taking Charles here to the lounge?” He gave Charles one last clap on the back.

“Yes, doctor. His papers are all taken care of, possessions all delivered and passed inspection?”

“Ah, yes,” Dr. McCoy said absentmindedly, his eyes wandering to the floor above them. “His papers are all filed in my office, his possessions are there as well. They have not been inspected yet.”

“I’ll see to it,” Ms. MacTaggert said.

“Thank you, dear lady. I must be off now.” He leaned in to kiss her hand delicately. “Charles, wonderful to meet you! I’ll see you sometime soon, I’m sure.” He shook his hand, then made his way up the stairs, in a bit of a hurry.

Ms. MacTaggert turned to Charles.

“You should follow me, Mr. Xavier.” She beckoned for him. He jogged to her side and followed along as she led him away from the staircase. They reached a set of large wooden double doors, much like the ones in the entrance hall.

“This, Mr. Xavier, is the lounge,” she said and pushed the doors open.

Charles came in behind her and stood in awe. The room was huge. It was warm and well-lit and the friendliest place he had seen in the whole manor. The ceiling was high, twenty feet, maybe more. Large wooden beams with richly carved designs kept it up. It was almost domed in the center, with a mural the size of which Charles had ever seen before. An angel with golden robes and golden hair held a sweet-faced baby swaddled in the same golden fabric. All around them other angels danced in joy and cooed at the infant.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Ms. MacTaggert remarked. She stood beside Charles, gazing up at the ceiling. “The lord of the manor hired an artist to paint it back in the 1860s, when this place was still used as the family’s house. This used to be a ballroom.” She gestured around. “The piano is the same one from that time.” She pointed to a grand piano to the side of room, with chipped paint and a bench that did not match, but lovely all the same. He tried to picture Azazel there.

“Do you play?” she asked, noticing him eyeing the piano.

“A bit,” he said, which was untrue. He had been playing the piano since he was five years old. He could have told her that, there was no harm in it, but for some reason he felt he should keep that information to himself, keep at least some bit of his life away from them.

“New patient?” someone grumbled. Charles looked around for the culprit. A large, burly man sat on a worn couch near them, smoking a fat brown cigar. He wore a gray shirt that looked like it had been white at one point; this was tucked into brown trousers. Black suspenders completed the look.

Ms. MacTaggert eyed him warily.

“Logan, this is Charles Xavier. Charles Xavier, meet Logan.” She grimaced at him. He grinned right back, a stream of smoke escaping from between his teeth.

He raised a hand in mock salute and said, “How do you do.” Charles smiled.

“Pleasure.” He bowed deeply, causing Logan to bark out a laugh. Ms. MacTaggert groaned.

“Another comedian,” she sighed. “Well, now you’ve made friends –“ She gave Logan a narrowed eyed glare “– I’ll leave you to it.” She turned on her heel and left the room, passing through the double doors and back into the entrance hall.

Charles looked at Logan. Logan regarded him thoughtfully, puffing on his cigar, then after a moment he patted the spot beside him.

“Have a seat, kid.”

Charles came forward and sank into the cushions beside Logan. The couch was worn and the flowery fabric was tearing in some places, but it was plush and comfortable. He took in the room around him. At the very end, directly across from the doors, there was a large brick fireplace. Flames were dancing and the warmth of it spread throughout the whole room. All around there were windows, sending the afternoon sun streaming joyfully in. Mismatching furniture was placed haphazardly around the room: several other crumbling couches and easy chairs, as well as a rickety wooden card table and four brittle looking chairs, and then of course the old piano and the bench that did not match. It was not a displeasing sight, though. The room was rather homey and likeable.

“Where you from?” Logan asked. Charles looked up at him.

He responded, “London.” Logan flicked a piece of dirt off his arm, looking only mildly interested.

“Yeah? The city?”

“No.”

“Ah.” He twirled the cigar in his hand, then brought it to his mouth once more.

“Why are you here?” Logan asked around the cigar.

“Pardon?”

“You don’t seem off-your-rocker. Are you?” He raised his eye brows at Charles. Charles shook his head. “Didn’t think so. So then, why are you here?”

“My parents put me here,” Charles sniffed. Logan snorted.

“Mummy and daddy issues?”

“You could say that.” Charles crossed his arms and glared darkly at the floor. Logan seemed to be studying him intently now. Charles found it a bit unnerving.

“They must’ve put you here for a reason,” Logan said finally.

“They thought I was insane. And possessed,” Charles muttered. Logan whistled.

“Impressive. What’d you do to make them think that?” Charles considered lying, or telling Logan it was none of his business, but then he thought the hell with it. He trusted Logan, however strange that was.

“They thought I was seeing things. And lying to them.”

“Well, damn, all kids lie to their parents. Why’d they think you were seeing things?”

“Because I told them I saw a girl with blue skin,” he said. Something in Logan’s expression flickered.

“Did you see her?” he asked.

“I did,” Charles said hotly. Logan smiled.

“Hey, I believe you.” He held his hands up innocently, the thick brown cigar sticking out from his lips. Charles stared at him.

“You do?” he asked incredulously. How could Logan believe him? Charles knew how the story sounded to others, whether truthful or not, yet Logan said he believed him?

Logan nodded.

“Yep. I’ve seen her too.”

Charles gaped at him.

“You have? Where?”

“Oh, around,” Logan said flippantly, waving his hand in the air.

“Hey, but, I have to ask you a personal question, kid,” he said seriously. Charles leaned closer.

“What is it?” he whispered.

“Are you like her?”

Charles bristled.

“No! I don’t look like her, do I?” he fumed. Logan laughed.

“You’re a funny one,” he chuckled. When Charles insistently glared at him he punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Naw, you don’t. Not right now, anyway,” he said. “What I meant was, are you different?”

Charles leaned back against the couch. Was he different? Yes, he was different. He was the smartest pupil his governess ever taught. He had a photographic memory. And he could hear other people’s thoughts, access their memories, even feel their feelings. He was exceptionally different, and for that his parents locked him away.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m different.” Logan nodded appreciatively.

“What can you do?” he murmured. Charles glanced up at him, a small smile playing across his face.

“Want me to show you?” Logan raised an eyebrow but gave no objection. Charles felt his heart beating a little fast. This was his first time using his power for demonstration, for someone who wanted to see it, who seemed to like the fact that he was different.

He let a small breath out. Now that he was faced with this unbelievable situation he was not certain of what he should do. No prying, that was for sure. As curious as he was about Logan and his nature, he knew delving into someone’s mind unwelcome – and having them aware of it – would not be well met. True, he had done this before because of his unrestrained nosiness, but that would not be a good tactic here. He settled with just showing Logan some of his own mind.

He sent the image of the blue girl. He found her on their grounds on a rainy night, naked and curled up in their stable. He was astonished and dazzled and his ten-year old mind did not seem to register that rationally he should fear her. He tried to wake her, and when she did she was the one who cowered in fear, her pretty yellow eyes wide and untrusting.

“Stay here,” he told her. “I’ll get you a blanket and food.” He rushed back to the house to retrieve the items, and then back down to the stable, but when he came again she was gone. He had returned to the house, with mud spattered clothes and soggy blankets and bread, to receive a spanking for sneaking out.

“Amazing,” Logan breathed once the memory was over. Charles felt his cheeks burn. It was unfamiliar, yet flattering to hear somebody call his power “amazing.”

“You’re not the only one, you know,” Logan said, pointing his cigar at Charles. “There’s a woman here like you, though a bit more physical and a hell of a lot crueler.”

“Really?” Charles asked excitedly. Another telepath? Imagine how they could communicate with each other! “Is she a patient?”

“No, she’s not. And don’t get your hopes up, kid,” Logan said sharply. “She’s a right cold bitch when she wants to be.”


	3. Chapter 3

After demanding to see more of his tricks, smoking through another two cigars, and pointing out every patient and staff member and calling them by name, Logan led Charles around the outside grounds, the brisk fall air nipping at Charles’ rosy cheeks and running through his wavy brown hair like cold, cruel fingers.

There were high, thick stone walls surrounding everything, so that one could barely see the tops of the trees over their mass. The walls stood looming, gray and grubby and gloomily sapping all hope of escape from all who approached.

“Don’t bother, kid.” Charles looked away at the sound of Logan’s voice. Logan gave him a squinty-eyed look. He pointed a thick finger at the great gray wall. “It’s too tall. Too thick. Plus they’ve got barbed wire lining the bottom of the other side, in case you manage to jump over.” He turned his body towards the building, pointing the same large finger at a set of high windows. “Those there, see ‘em, kid? Those windows have eyes. Every minute there’s a gunman who’ll shoot you down if you try anything funny.” Logan let his arm drop.

“They want to keep us in,” he said. “But they also want to keep others out.”

Charles looked back to the wall. A large, black raven was perched on the top, running its ivory beak through its shiny feathers. It seemed to sense him looking and stopped. It slowly turned its beady eyes to him, its head tilted slightly to the side. It regarded him, then cawed. Once, twice. Charles blinked at it. The raven blinked at him. Charles raised his hand in a sort of salute, two fingers tipping his missing hat off to the raven. The raven blinked again, its head still cocked to one side. Logan gave Charles a strange look.

“You’re a weird kid, Xavier.” He took one of his brown cigars from his back pocket. It was slightly flattened, most likely from him sitting on it. He dug around his person for a match. Finding nothing, he swore.

“The fuck is John when you need ‘im,” he grumbled under his breath. Charles was not sure if John was a person or slang for something. He patted his pockets, though he knew there were no matches there.

“Got nothing?” Charles shook his head. Logan let out a loud, annoyed sigh. Charles personally thought that since he had smoked a mere hour earlier he could probably survive another few minutes, yet he knew now was not the best time to mention that.

“Fuck. Hey, John!” Logan gestured frantically to a boy across the courtyard. He was tall and skinny at sat alone on an old wooden bench. “John! Fucker can’t hear me – AY JOHN!” The boy looked up, confused. He saw Logan waving his arms and stood up, making his way across the browning grass to join them.

“Can’t find my matches,” Logan called to him. John, now halfway to them, nodded and gave Logan the finger. Logan barked out a laugh and returned the gesture. “Dumbass kid,” he chuckled.

Now reaching the pain of them, John gave Charles a questioning look.

“Who’s this?” he asked. Charles gave him a once over, John’s clothing was similar to Logan’s and he looked about three years younger than Charles.

“New patient.” Logan stuck the dilapidated cigar in his mouth and pursed his lips, leaning in toward John. John grinned and lifted a finger to the cigar. Charles watched in awe as a flame erupted from the tip of the boy’s forefinger and flickered. It was astounding – it stood right there, a small orange flame, on John’s fingertip, and it seemed to not burn him at all. Logan had not been humoring him: there were others here, freaks of nature, people who were different.

The flame lit up the cigar and the end turned orange, smoldering as Logan stuck it between his lips and sucked in, a relieved and content expression on his face.

“Thanks, kid.” Logan punched John on the shoulder. John’s curious grin erupted again, flickering and heated and intriguing, yet giving off an air of danger and wariness, like the flame from his finger.

“Anytime, Wolvey.” Charles looked to Logan in confusion. Wolvey? Was that some strange nickname he had here? He lightly tapped at John’s mind; perhaps there was an answer there.

There was a mild warmth in John’s mind, mild but not comforting. It was like the too hot sands of a beach under the sun, with bath-water warm waters that offered little coolness, with the heat reflecting off the surface, not a cloud to shade his face. Charles, his feet burning, shuffled into the water as the waves slowly lapped at his feet. A white seagull soared above him, carrying an icicle in its beak. Charles thought that was strange – where would the bird find such a thing in this heat anyway – but the gull flew on, carrying its baggage with purpose, like it was trying to save the precious ice from melting. A blue jellyfish rolled up the wet sand with the next flow of the tide. Charles bent down, fingers extended, then stopped, remembering he could be stung. He found a thin stick a few feet away. Returning to the little blue beached jellyfish, Charles crouched down and poked the blue blob with the end of the stick. The jellyfish shuddered. Charles poked again, a bit harder this time. The jellyfish trembled, its thin stringy tentacles reaching to the water, longing for the sea. Charles poked again. Memories burst forth: a small John with his fingers on fire and screaming parents, cowering away from their demon child; John being left in this shithole, nobody signing any paperwork, no visitors, just a firm push from the car and a confused little boy with burning hands; John and another boy, with hands like his, but covered in cold.

The jellyfish made a squelching _bloop_ and exploded, liquid seeping out onto the sand and blue chunks of jellyfish anatomy scattering about. Charles dropped the stick and backed off. He had pushed a bit too far, gone further than he intended. And John may or may not have been aware – the jellyfish could have burst from his prodding, or used a sort of self-destruct mechanism to protect the owner of those memories, John could have done this consciously or not. But whatever the cause, Charles pulled out, deciding it best to leave John’s mind in its own personal turmoil.

Charles blinked a few times and shook his head slightly. John and Logan were both staring at him.

“You alright, kid?” Logan raised a thick brow. Charles nodded feverishly. “You sure? You blanked out for a minute there. Looked kinda –” Logan waved a hand in front of his face.

“Lost,” John supplied. Logan grunted in agreement. Charles looked to John, John with his permanent smirk and sharp eyes. There was nothing there, though, that suggested suspicion. Nothing that raised a red flag.

“I’m fine,” Charles said, rubbing a finger into his temple to calm the headache that had slowly built after his excursion into John’s mind. This happened often for Charles, this headache that needled its way into his brain after he used his power. He never found out how to control that. He never found out how to control anything with his power, never having anyone willing to teach him or anyone who actually knew enough to help him.

They both gave him lingering looks, but Charles brushed them off. His mind, however, was not as easily overlooked. Flashes of John’s memory, John’s thoughts, were still flickering. He tried to lock them away, block them out, but they wanted to flash in front of his eyes – there was John, small and confused, alone in a crowd of mentally ill, John curled up crying on a rickety bed, John showing Logan – who looked exactly as he did now – his flames and, to John’s delight, Logan ruffled his hair and told him he was something special.

Charles was confused. He just wanted to know why John called Logan Wolvey. He did not want to know all this. It was personal and too much and pounding, banging its fiery fists against his skull. Charles felt vulnerable and out of control. He made an excuse – “bathroom,” he mumbled – and left them, still staring oddly after him, speed-walking back into the home.

Pushing his way through the heavy wooden doors, he stopped in the entrance hall, realizing he had nowhere to go. He certainly was not going to sit in a dark cell, and there was no point going back into the lounge if Logan was absent; Charles was not keen on making any new friends just yet.

He decided to wander, making his way up the rich wooden staircase with purpose, his hand running along the polished railing as he climbed. He passed several people, both patients and nurses, but none stopped him. It was true some nurses eyed him warily and one patient, a boy about John’s age with curly reddish hair, wolf-whistled at him, earning a slap on the wrist from the nurse accompanying him, but for the most part Charles was left to his own devices. Up the stairs he took the way that looked less familiar, opposite to the way Dr. McCoy’s office was. The hallways upstairs were nicer, cleaner, wider and brighter than the ones the travelled in between cells. The floors were tiled white and the walls were adorned with paintings.

He passed through the hall, his head spinning and his eyes blurring. He felt so lost and confused; why was this happening? He had headaches before, but nothing like this, this dizzying, screaming, stabbing in his temples.

He slowed, bracing himself against the wall with one hand and pinching the bridge of his nose with the other. He suddenly felt as if he would vomit. He bent over, falling hard onto his knees.

“Whoa there!” Frantic footfalls came toward him from the other end of the hallway, the way he had come. The footsteps stopped at his side. Through squinted eyes he saw him, starting with scuffed-up and worn leather shoes and making his way slowly up, all the way to the hem of the white lab coat and those bright, concerned eyes, magnified behind his thick glasses.

“Charles, are you alright?” Dr. McCoy asked urgently, his face lined with worry. Charles sat up, rubbing his eyes. He could still vaguely see John, younger than he was now, lying in the grass beside another boy.

“Fine,” he mumbled. He scrubbed at his face and willed the images to go away.

“Are you sure? You look a little green.”

“I’m fine. Just a bit of a headache.” Charles waved him off and tried to stand, falling back down on shaky legs. Dr. McCoy crouched down beside him.

“You don’t look well.” Dr. McCoy squinted at him through his thick glasses. “Here: how many fingers am I holding up?”

Charles blinked, focusing on his hand. The four fingers seemed to grow exponentially, blurry as each new set grew from the doctor’s thick and fuzzy hand. “Four.”

“Good. Now, who’s our current king?”

“Ah, Edward.”

“Mhmm?” He gestured, asking for more.

“Edward VII. I’m fine, really.”

“Excellent. Do you think you can try to stand again?” The doctor held out his hand to help. Charles reached out to grip his extended arm, using Dr. McCoy’s weight to pull himself up. He wavered, his feet shuffling side to side to gain his balance.

“All right?” Dr. McCoy asked anxiously. Charles nodded. The wave of nausea was slowly receding, leaving a dull headache and a broken ego. John’s face was gone from his mind now, just a ghost he could resurrect later.

“Here,” Dr. McCoy continued, placing his free hand on Charles’ shoulder. “You stay put, don’t go anywhere. I’m going to get you some water and something to eat, maybe that will help.” He dashed off down the hallway, calling over his shoulder, “just stay right there, Charles!” He rounded the corner and was gone in a flurry of starched white fabric.

Charles stood still, staring down the hall. Dr. McCoy had told him to stay here, clearly he preferred Charles not to wander. But what was down the hall? Charles turned his head, eyeing the other end of the vast hallway. Maybe something Dr. McCoy wanted to keep secret. Charles glanced over his shoulder, back the way Dr. McCoy had run, and, with his heart beating a little faster, he started off down the unexplored expanse that lay before him.

He barely made it ten steps when something caught his eye. It was one of the many paintings on the wall, surrounded by a gilded frame, and it was large, about ten by twelve feet, taking up much of the wall space. He leaned in, curiosity getting the best of him.  

It was a painting of a monster, a great, green, hulking form. He stepped closer, squinting his eyes to get a better look. It was a man, or it resembled a man. Its features were off, having bulbous eyes and grotesquely large limbs. The flesh looked rotted, perhaps that was the skill of the painter or the fact that the oil paint was peeling off, revealing old brown canvas and more layers of paint beneath. He gently touched it. A green flake chipped off and floated to the floor, the monster’s skin wasting away before his eyes.

“That’s a very old painting,” a voice behind him remarked. Charles started and spun around, half-expecting Dr. McCoy to be back, but it no, it was someone else. A tall man with slicked back ginger hair stood off to his side, his arms crossed in front of his chest, and he regarded Charles with mild interest. “You probably shouldn’t touch it.”

“I didn’t!” Charles insisted, then blushed. That was an outright lie; the man had just witnessed him do it. The man did not accuse him – he simply raised his brow. The corner of his mouth quirked up just a bit, a sly smile. Charles blinked.

They continued to stare at each other for a long moment, the tall man with those long arms crossed and that half-smile, and Charles, with his wide eyes and pale face.

“What is it?” Charles finally spoke, his voice hoarse, a hushed tone. It broke the silent hall and bounced back at him, sounding harsh and unfamiliar. The man’s brow rose again.

“What is what?”

“The painting.”

“What about the painting?” He was smirking now, toying with Charles. Charles felt a small twinge of annoyance, but it was a very small twinge, eaten up mostly by the awe and embarrassment he felt.

“What is it?” He wanted to cross his arms and look sneaky and confident like this man. He was not able to, though. He felt frozen.

“Why, it’s a painting, isn’t it?” He was actually smiling now, a wide grin with two rows of white teeth. He had so many teeth. And he was so amused, and Charles was shocked by his sudden presence.

“I – yes, it is.” He glanced behind him, as if to check it was, in fact, still a painting. He looked back at the man. “It is a painting,” he confirmed. The man’s grin widened. Charles thought of a predator, a lion or a shark, with sharp, pearly teeth.

“Imagine that,” he murmured.

“What’s on the painting?” Charles pressed. The man made a “hmm” sound, tapping his forefinger against his lower lip, pretending to be in deep thought.

“Well let’s see, shall we?” He took two long strides forward, standing directly beside Charles. He put his hands on his hips and leaned closer, biting his lip and examining the painting. Charles waited with bated breath for several long seconds, leaning in close like the man, but staring at him rather than the painting.

“Ahhh,” he breathed, straightening up and rubbing his chin thoughtfully. The other hand remained on thin hip.

“Yes?” Charles whispered. The man looked down on him, the half-smile showing its face again.

“What does it look like?”

Charles squinted at the painting. A monster. “A monster?”

“Hm.” He stared at the painting thoughtfully. “Possibly. But why do you say monster?”

“It’s hideous,” Charles said matter-of-factly.

“Have you not seen a hideous man? What about him makes him hideous?”

_Everything,_ Charles thought. “Why, his features.” Right? Right.

“Yes, he is ugly.” The man folded his hands behind his back, standing straight and tall, intimidating. “But does that make him bad? What about ugliness makes us think someone is a monster, a villain?” Charles looked at him, thinking. After a moment he looked back at the peeling painting.

“Are there such thing as kind monsters?” he asked. The man smiled at him.

“That’s a good question. I think so. What do you think?” He looked down upon Charles, patiently waiting for an answer. Charles was taken aback. No one had ever asked him such a thing before, ever asked him about what he thought and looked genuinely interested in what he had to say.

“I think…” He placed a finger on his nose in thought. “I think there can be. Just because someone is ugly doesn’t make them bad.”

The man nodded in agreement. “Well put,” he said. “You know things. And knowledge is power, don’t you think?”

“I – yes, I do.” He was not used to this forward near-kindness, this strange, toothy person giving him undivided attention. A thought blossomed in his mind like a bubble in a bathtub and he scrambled to say it, the words trying to pour from his mouth all in a rush. “No, I don’t!” The man looked politely surprised, saying “oh?”

Charles shook his head fervently. “I mean, yes I do. But then no, I don’t.” The man nodded slowly, looking slightly confused.

“What I mean to say is yes, I agree,” Charles sputtered. “But I – I don’t think it’s necessarily good power.”

“And why not?” he inquired.

“Because, well because sometimes you learn things, but maybe they were things you were never meant to learn. Maybe you gain an understanding of something dangerous, or terrible. Maybe it’s knowledge that’s better left unheard. Maybe some things are better left alone.” Charles broke off, and consciously rubbed the back of his neck, feeling like he had not gotten his point across. He knew what he wanted to say, but he found words were hard to articulate in this man’s presence.

“I think you’re right,” the man said thoughtfully, considering the grotesque painting once more. “Humans have a self-destructing tendency to meddle in things they shouldn’t. Sometimes the ignorant fool can be the happiest man alive, for he doesn’t know trauma, fear, tragedy.” He looked sorrowful.

A feeling of affection overcame Charles, urging him to comfort the man, to reach out and hug him and wrap his arms around that ridiculously slim waist. Something of this must have shown on his face, because the man gave him a wary eye and stepped away an inch.

“Charles! Here, this is for you.” Charles glanced over at Dr. McCoy, who held a glass of water in one hand and a piece of buttered toast in the other. The doctor turned his attention to the man beside Charles.

“Erik,” he said in surprise. “What are you doing up here?” He frowned suspiciously. Charles eyed the man, Erik, wondering the same thing. Erik smiled pleasantly at Dr. McCoy.

“I was admiring the view.” He gestured at the painting, which Charles still stood in front of. Dr. McCoy looked at the hideous creature on the canvas, then at Charles, who stood awkwardly between them, his hands clasped behind his back and a pink blush creeping over his cheeks and his freckled nose.

Dr. McCoy narrowed his eyes at Erik, whose smile widened. He broke eye contact after a moment, turning back to Charles and handing him the glass of water and the toast.

“Well, now, eat this Charles. And drink the water, too, it’ll make you feel better. You’ve had a long day, I know, and you must be exhausted.” He patted Charles’ shoulder, pity in his eyes. Charles looked at the floor.

“Why don’t you come back downstairs with me, hm? Nothing worth seeing up here,” Dr. McCoy continued, his hand falling from Charles’ shoulder and going into his pocket, fiddling with some unseen object. “Erik, you’d better come too.” Dr. McCoy started off down the hall, back toward the staircase, slowing to let Charles walk beside him, Erik took the doctor’s other side, and together the three of them tramped down the hall and down the stairs.

“Eat the toast, it’ll help, there you go.” Dr. McCoy stopped at the thick wooden doors of the lounge. Charles swallowed and sipped at his water to help the dry toast go down. He was used to excellent food, to large roasts, sugared squash, and heavy puddings; he supposed he would have to forget fine dining and get more accustomed to whatever they fed the patients here.

“You two go on back into the lounge, I’ve got some work I need to finish.” Dr. McCoy pushed open the door for them, ushering them inside. “Make sure you eat that, Charles, and finish your water. And keep an eye on him for me, won’t you?” He nodded to Erik, who had wandered a few steps away, his hands shoved into his pockets, watching two young men, one with blond hair, the other dark skinned. The blond one picked at pieces of dirt on his pants and flicked them at the dark skinned man, who got increasingly more annoyed as each piece of dirt landed on him.

“He tends to get into mischief,” Dr. McCoy continued, sighing wearily. He gave Charles a tired smile and backed out of the room, the heavy wooden doors falling shut behind him.

Charles felt a small thrill of anxiousness; Dr. McCoy was, apart from – sort of, in his own way – Logan, the only person he felt comfortable with in his short few hours in this strange place. And now he was left on his own. Or, not on his own. With Erik, whom he did not know at all, apart from their brief philosophical conversation, and who was now giving him his full attention, the wide grin plastered back over his face, turning a small silver something over and over in his large, pale hands.

 


End file.
